In the Darkest Hour
by AliceSarina
Summary: Five Times When Michael Prayed.  A series of one-shots. Five of the most physically and emotionally painful moments of Michael's life. Pre-series.


**Title: In The Darkest Hour- Five Times When Michael Prayed**

**Description: A Burn Notice fic. A series of one-shots. Five of the most physically and emotionally painful moments of Michael's life. Pre-series. **

**Disclaimer: Obviously, none of this belongs to me.**

**A/N: I remember reading a couple fics on here along similar line. I don't mean to step on anyone's toes, this is just my take. It was written for USA Land's Five Times Challenge. **

**Preface**

When you're a spy, you face death almost every day. You learn pretty quickly that covert operatives have a much higher fatality rate than say, dentists and lawyers. You may think I'm pretty lucky that I am still around, but most days I would tell you luck has nothing to do with it; I am a highly trained agent. There have been a few days, though, that I have realized that even the best training the greatest government on earth has provided, isn't always enough. Call it destiny, call it divine intervention, call it what you will, persuasive words and combat training carry you only so far.

**Miami, FL**

When Michael was 6 years old, he was already braver than most full grown men. In the living room his father was ranting loudly at Madeline.

Michael was sitting in the corner of his room, covering his ears to mute the noise. The fighting was an almost nightly occurrence. As usual, Nate ran into Michael's room and crawled onto his lap, and Michael hugged him. Nate smelled like milk and graham crackers. Michael whispered comforting words to him, while Nate anxiously sucked his thumb. "Make it stop," Nate whimpered, as the hallow sound of a punch making contact resounded through the walls.

"Okay," Michael said. He was tired of covering his ears. He was tired of listening to his mother cry. He pulled Nate out of his lap, stood up, and said, "You stay here." Nate silently obliged.

He ran into the living room, where he saw his father violently shaking his mother. The scene made him scared and furious, and he felt adrenaline surging through his body. "Hey Dad," Michael yelled, to catch his attention. He ran up to his father, and with all the strength he had, he punched him in the stomach.

His father's recoil was just enough to give Michael a head start. He ran into his room, roughly grabbed Nate, and dragged him into the crawl space. He shut the grate door just in time to see his father barging into the room. Only a half an inch of metal separated him and Nate from his father's wrath. He heard his father's fist pounding on the metal, and Michael felt nauseous with fear. "Oh God, get me out of here," he cried, hoping that he was not just shouting to the walls of the crawl space.

It was more than an hour before his father finally gave up on trying to get to them, and hours more before he thought it was safe for Nate and him to leave their make-shift fortress.

**A Flight to Uzbekistan **

Michael fidgeted in his seat. It was his first time flying first class. It was his first time flying internationally. It was his first assignment from the CIA. He was usually confident and he was usually fearless. But here he was, flying to a country that a few years ago he'd never heard of, facing enemies unknown. And he was terrified.

He had graduated from the Academy without festivities last week. And here he was now, seriously beginning to wonder if they had made the right choice in picking him. Certainly a real spy would not have sweaty palms and a heartbeat so loud the whole plane could hear.

His assignment was a simple one. An information gathering mission. But if his training had taught him anything, it was that the world he had entered was murky and treacherous. And his demise would be hiding in every 5-star hotel room and abandoned hovel.

As the plane touched down and a flight attendant began making announcements in a foreign tongue, Michael almost physically cringed. "Oh, God, what am I doing?" he asked himself, and it is more of a prayer than an exclamation.

As he walked off the plane he straightened his tie (he hates ties) and instinctively pat his gun where it was strapped to his chest. He drank in the Eastern European architecture as he stepped onto the tarmac, he remembered why he was there, and his training kicked in. "Maybe I _can _change the world," he thought. He'd certainly try.

**St. Petersburg, Russia**

"What kind of idiot do you think I am?" asked the gaunt man, pressing a gun into Michael's chest. The Russian's cronies edged in closer, almost instinctively, as if aware of the true danger that Michael posed to them.

He had been threatened at gunpoint more times than he could count. Unlike in the movies, real murderers didn't monologue. They just shoot. He had maybe 5 seconds to disarm the threat, verbally or with force. Since he was staring into the greasy face of a Russian mobster and 6 of his "bodyguards," force would only amplify their rage.

"Did Charles send you?" the man demanded in a thick Russian accent, pressing the gun more forcefully into Michael's ribcage. But before Michael had a chance to utter a single word, he heard the familiar "pew" of a gun with a silencer. He felt the pain spread through his chest, and another surge of pain as he cracked his head against the pavement. He heard the men scattering, leaving him for dead in the back of an ally in the middle of St. Petersburg.

He wondered if the CIA would retrieve him, or if they would allow him to die, just another corrupt business man from Prague. At first his senses were super-acute. He could smell fresh bread and stale urine. He could hear a couple fighting and a barking dog. The ground beneath him was so cold, it almost burned. It was only when the world began to grow blurry that fear seized him. "Oh God, help me," he whispered.

The next thing he remembered is waking to bright lights and beeping monitors. He hoped that this was a hospital and not heaven, because he'd rather heaven not smell like iodine.

**The Rainforest in Colombia**

He had been strapped to this chair for three months. His face was beaten so badly, even his own mother wouldn't recognize him. He had at least a dozen broken bones that he could count, maybe more. He was in so much pain, every moment of consciousness was intense torment.

The walls of the barely lit room were composed of 956 stones, each. He had counted them more than a dozen times to keep himself sane. He translated songs he remembered from his childhood into Russian and then into German. He tried to recall the plot of every book he had read in high school.

A Columbian drug cartel had tortured him for months, to no avail. They didn't know who he was. They didn't know why he had contacted them. And they were growing very impatient.

It had been a week since anyone had even tried to talk with him. He was almost delirious with hunger. His mouth was filled with the metallic taste of blood.

He was imaging how delicious a blueberry yogurt would be, when he heard footsteps. A man walked in who reeked of cigars and wine. He had a 9-inch knife in his hand.

The man leaned over Michael, and held the knife to his throat. "Tell me who you are, or I will kill you," the man said curtly. Michael knew when someone was capable of taking a life, and this man had murder in his eyes.

He felt the metal pressed against his throat. "Oh God, just let them kill me," he moaned. He was so weak he didn't even brace himself against certain death.

"Flash." "Bang." Nine hundred and fifty-six stones came crumbling down, and his angel of death quickly flew away. The adrenaline, the fear, the smoke and gun fire that now filled the air was all too much for Michael's body to handle. He slipped into darkness.

The next thing he knew he was being carried through the jungle, a branch hitting his face roused him. "You are one lucky SOB, brother, that the SEALs ran into you," he heard the man carrying him say. And then unconsciousness swept over him again.

**Dublin, Ireland**

Michael stared at the woman sleeping serenely in their bed. _Their bed_. Loathing consumed his gut, as he gently smoothed the stray hairs from her face. His fingers lingered on her cheek. He breathed deeply, she smelled like gun powder and lavender.

The pain in his heart was ineffable. If you had asked him a few years ago if he could ever love someone as much as he loved Fi, he would have told them it was impossible for a spy to really fall in love. But then he had been assigned to work with this asset. This crazy, passionate, trigger-happy, strong to a fault, asset. And after too many late nights and too many close calls, he began to feel her passion, too. The line between asset and soul mate had become irrevocably blurred.

One phone called changed everything. He had a half an hour. Five minutes to pack. Fifteen minutes to get to the airport. Ten minutes to work up the strength to leave her. He'd been held captive for months, fought off six men at once, been shot more times than he could count on two hands, and still this was the hardest thing he'd ever done.

And he stared at the woman whom he loved more than his own life. A woman he had no idea that when she woke, he would be gone. He wondered if the memory of their last night together would still mean as much tomorrow. He'd cooked her dinner. They'd had too much beer. They fell asleep, exhausted in every way possible. Would all their memories together be ruined?

He pushed his emotions aside and strengthened his resolve. There were wars being fought that were far bigger than two people's happiness. He kissed her cheek, and whispered, "Goodbye Fi."

He walked outside, and hailed a cab. It was raining out. How poetic.

While he was sitting in back of the run-down cab, in a last moment of fleeting weakness he silently pleaded, "God, please let me see that woman again."

The only sound he heard was the rumbling engine and the rain against the windows, and he thought for a moment, maybe someone heard him.


End file.
